


Evergreen

by orphan_account



Category: Vikings (TV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-17
Updated: 2014-02-17
Packaged: 2018-01-12 21:15:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,353
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1200946
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Lagertha comes to terms with the nature of sacrifice. (Set during episode eight. Lagertha/Athelstan.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Evergreen

**Author's Note:**

> I started this right after episode eight aired and promptly forgot about it. Whoops! (WARNINGS: Mildly dub-conish, I guess, if you squint hard enough. I'd rather be safe than sorry when it comes to triggery stuff like that. Also, no actual sex. Sorry about that.)

When the children are asleep, she steps outside. The air is crisp, carrying the scent of pine needles and roasting meat. Drums thump all around her, their rhythm broken by laughter and the low note of bells. Lagertha wraps her arms around herself. In her memories this place blazes with light, and the drums shake her bones.

She feels old.

In the nine years since she last made the journey, something has changed. She remembers spinning circles around the trees, face upturned in ecstasy, her hand clasped in Ragnar’s. That was a time when she did not doubt, when her joy was matched only by the sense of possibility before her. Everything seems so much smaller now. It feels like the whole world is contracting, squeezing the breath from her. 

Ragnar has not come back. If he were to ask, she would not say she is searching for him. He is not lost, not yet. 

She shivers and glances back to the cabin. It is warm inside, and she left her cloak laid neatly across Gyda. But she does not return to the bed where he daughter sleeps. Instead, she turns back to the grove, rubbing her arms briskly.

Silhouettes move between the trees. A man twirls fire. And then she notices him in the deep shadows of the nearest tree. His eyes are closed; he sways where he stands.

“Priest,” she says gently. 

His eyes gradually come open, with effort. The pupils are like thick, clumsy drops of ink. 

“Lagertha,” he says, smiling as though each syllable of her name brings him pleasure. He steadies himself with a hand on the tree. His hair is damp, a shade darker than usual. He seems relaxed and content. He must be intoxicated.

“Have you enjoyed your evening?” she asks.

“Thyri bathed me. And she kissed me.” His eyebrows furrow. “But that was before the bath. I think.”

“You think?” Despite herself, her lips quirk into a smile. 

“It’s been a strange evening,” he admits, scratching the back of his head. The light catches on his mantle. It sits crooked on his shoulders, and appears to have traveled halfway around his body. There are dark blotches where his hair must have dripped on it. She reaches to adjust it but he shies back. His shoulder bumps the tree trunk. 

Her hand hovers in the air between them. The brooch rests on the side of his arm; she sets it right and lingers for a moment, feeling the metal warm between her fingers. He does not breathe until she leans back to admire her work.

“That’s better,” she murmurs. He looks down, then back up at her. He bites his lip.

“Thryi would not tell me why she did … those things,” he says, fidgeting with his sleeve. It’s a question, she realizes.

So he still does not know why he is here. 

“Perhaps she favors you,” she says. 

It is not entirely outlandish. True: he is slim where her husband is broad. The sun makes his skin red and his beard could be best described as perfunctory. He has none of Ragnar’s confidence, or his cheerful disregard for authority. But he has grown stronger since he first came to them. And there is a watchful intelligence to his eyes she finds attractive.

He has never been unkind to her, or to her children. Tomorrow he will be dead.

In the past, the prospect of his death had moved across her mind like a stone skipped across water — a fleeting, abstract idea. Tomorrow it will be made real in a single stroke. They will leave him in this place, like they leave the ashes and chicken bones and broken crockery. And when they are home, he will not carry the wood for her hearth. He will not sip his mead or brush the dogs after the evening meal. He will not watch her in that way that is wondering, almost reverent.

She tries to imagine him dead, his body cold and still. She swallows.

“What is it?” he asks, peering at her through the darkness. 

She forces herself to look him in the face. He meets her gaze directly, with only mild curiosity. Something catches in her throat. 

This time, when she reaches for him, he goes very still. Her fingers curl behind his ear and slip down his jaw. She pulls him to her. The noise he makes is not one of protest, but surprise.

Her lips find his. One of her hands tugs at his tunic, while the other tangles in his hair. Her need swells against her ribs, making her rough.

Tentatively, his hand comes to her face. His mouth opens to her. In the past she might have been more patient, found a certain charm in the way his fingers curl against her skin, sweetly unsure. Now she takes every inch he will surrender, pressing her breasts against him. Her momentum carries them one lurching step back, and then his back hits the tree. Her hand finds his hip, her thumb hooking under his trousers. But then he makes a noise, turning from her. Her lips catch the smooth skin high on his cheek. He breathes hard.

“I told you I-” he says after a long moment. He blinks. Steadies himself. “Why all of this? Why now?”

Another question. Her mouth opens. Closes.

“I’m afraid,” she whispers.

His eyebrows come together. He doesn’t want her to be afraid. Of course. Before he can make his reassurances, before that knot in her throat can loosen into tears, she is kissing him again, willing him to heed his instincts: to be afraid, too. The secret is not hers to tell but she tries anyway, pushing harder, closer. His eyelashes beat against her skin like some trapped, caged thing. His hands are at her shoulders as if he means to push her away. She snarls and takes hold of his cock through his trousers; he gasps and bucks against her. Urgency makes her savage. 

She sees herself as if from very far away. This is not how it should be. 

Frustration and grief break from her in one choking sob. She stumbles back wildly. He watches her, eyes wide.

Lagertha sees fear in him. Whether it’s of her or for her or merely a reflection of her own fear — she isn’t sure. It’s all wrong. She curses. Enough. She will tell him. Ragnar is not a cruel man, but in this, he has been unjust. 

It is unlikely that Athelstan will understand. She hopes he can make his peace with it, at least.

His attention, however, is elsewhere. He is frowning down at his mantle. It is askew once more, and he tugs it straight. But then he pauses, his hand half curled in the wool. After a moment he seems to come to some decision, because his fingers work at the brooch, and he shrugs from underneath the mantle. With one fluid motion he swings it over her shoulders, fastening it at her throat. His warmth settles over her.

“You must be cold,” he says with a crooked smile. He gives her arm a little shake, awkwardly, the way a man might reassure a child, but does not let go. She looks down at his hand. He follows her gaze: it is the first time he has ever allowed his hand to rest on her body. It folds into a fist as something inside him seems to shift and resolve. Gently, his fingers slip beneath her chin. His lips brush hers in the darkness. He breathes her name.

He tastes of salt and alcohol, like any man. But he is warm and he is _alive_. 

“Thank you,” she murmurs over and over again, to his neck and to his chest, all the secret places beyond his hearing. In his blood he carries the promise: she will be as she once was.

Quietly, the world grows larger. The stars inch away. And life throbs all around her, in the leaves and in the soil. It will grow in her again.

Under her hand, his heart pounds.


End file.
